Enfer
by Team Hyde and Phantom
Summary: A desperate man takes desperate measures to secure his place in history. His decision effects not only himself, but the lives of the ones he treasures as he crosses the fine line between a good man and a bad. AU, Jekyll and Hyde POTO Crossover.
1. Prologue

Neither of the authors stake any claim, and would like to take a moment to credit these men instead:

_Jekyll and Hyde: The Musical; _Steve Cuden and Frank Wildhorn

_Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; _Robert Lewis Stevenson

_Phantom of the Opera;_ Andrew Lloyd Webber

_The Phantom of the Opera; _Gaston Leroux

And we the authors would also like to thank Polly Moopers of PPN for being our wonderfulishious mid-wife/beta/saint. WE HEART POLLY!

_---_

_1879- Paris, France_

"_By five votes to none, with one abstention, Proposition 929 is rejected. Thank you for your time, gentlemen."_

Spoken with such finality, the words were a death sentence. _Rejected_, Dr. de Chagny fumed, as he slammed the door to his laboratory, throwing his hat down on the table with crushing force. Supporting himself with both fists on the table, he tried to control his breathing. _In… out…in…._ A deep growl formed at the back of his throat, and he didn't even try to contain it. Furiously, he flung himself into the chair and stared at his hands.

He had tried to reason. When that didn't work, he had argued. He had yelled. He had completely lost his educated, cool demeanor in front of the governors, but to no avail. When the gavel hammered down on the desk of the judge, reverberating through the deadly silence of the room, it became final. He would have no subject for his studies. "_This is a hospital, here to save lives! Did you think that we'd let you play God with a human soul? Dr. de Chagny, you have gone positively insane!" _Can't they see? It's not insanity, it's not blasphemy! He was trying to save mankind from itself!

_Rejected._

With a groan, Raoul let his head slip through his hands, and hit the desk. His blonde hair was all in disarray, but for once, he didn't care. Taking a deep breath, he felt his anger leave him broken and empty. _Rejected… all those years I've dedicated to my dream… rejected. I'm bound by their decision... _

His musings were interrupted by the glimmer of a beaker across the room.Walking over to it, he picked up off the counter carefully, and addressed it. "Well, Formula RC7," he smiled a bit at the formal name. "It seems that this is it. I have half a mind to drop you on the ground and watch you evaporate. You have no use now. Absolutely none! Do you hear me? _NONE!_ _YOU ARE USELESS!" _Absently, Raoul realized that he had been yelling. At the potion. Coming back from his rage, he laughed roughly, and gently set the formula back down on the counter it had come from. Stalking back across the room, he clasped his hands behind his back, and continued addressing the swirl of changing colors.

"I wasn't lying, you know. The governors won't let me use you on one of the hospital's patients. They're really not visionaries like we are, are they? God damn fools! Ah well, it's no use… unless… no." A thought flickered across his mind, tantalizing him with its possibilities. Insane possibilities. The governors had ruled that he couldn't use a hospital patient… but they had said nothing about himself.

"No, I won't do it!" He told the potion. It glimmered back at him. "Why, you little demon! You want me to, don't you?" It turned a volatile shade of red, deep crimson, like blood. "Well, who am I to resist? If no one else shall… then I will."

Sitting down at his desk, he picked up a quill, and began to write.

_Taken from the scientific journal of Dr. Raoul de Chagny_

_**September 13, 1879**_

_**11:50: **The governors have left me with no choice but to proceed on my own. With no patient to experiment upon, I am left with myself. There is no other choice. I must push on, put aside my fears and work for the betterment of mankind. _

_I need to know! I need to know the secrets of men's minds! Where is the proverbial fine line between sanity and insanity, genius and madman? What makes a man truly evil?_

_It is up to me, my life is at stake. It comes to this… No one else will help me, so for the first time in my life, I shall help myself. I will not lie and say that I do not have my fears. Shall I die? Perhaps I will not die, but instead be crippled for the rest of my life? Such thoughts swirl through my head as Formula RC7 glimmers from the shelf. _

_It is now, or never. It seems fitting that with the tolling of the midnight bells, a new day shall dawn for Raoul de Chagny. _

Raoul signed his name into the little leather-bound book and flipped it closed. He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. It didn't work. Had he ever been this frightened before? Not when his mother had found him sneaking back in the house after a night with his friends, having his first drink, an experience he would never repeat. Not even his vivid recurring nightmare as a little boy, about the man with half a face could compare to the dark churning of dread in the very pit of his stomach. Rubbing his temples, Raoul glanced up at the bubbling potion which he had set upon the Bunsen burner minutes ago. With a sigh of resignation, he slid on thick gloves to protect him from the heat, scooped up his tongs, and removed it from the flame.

As he set it on the cool stone top of his desk, the formula began to shift colors quickly. Starting out clear, it darkened to a dangerous looking orange, then to a vibrant yellow, and finally it deepened to a foul green. Taking a deep breath, Raoul picked up the solution. A line from a book read long ago at school flitted through his mind. "I drink to thee, Romeo!"he proclaimed, and gulped the entire beaker down.

With a shudder, he wiped his mouth off with the back of a glove. The salty taste burned his tongue in the most unpleasant way. Reopening his journal, he took off his gloves and began to write.

_**11:59: **I have consumed 100 milliliters of Formula RC 7 whilst in its green state. Approximately one minute from time of consumption, no other side effects except a salty burning in my mouth have become known. _

_One minute and thirty seconds. My limbs have begun tingling, starting at the tips of my fingers and toes and moving inward. I am cold… very cold. My heart feels numb…_

_Two minutes. My heart is in agony, I fear it shall burst! Taking a breath has become as painful as death, and I am trembling violently! Everything is spinning around me; I can no longer read what I am writing! My world is going red, and I cannot write any mo-_

Tumbling from his chair, Raoul hit the ground without trying to break his fall. Landing on his side, he started convulsing violently. He rolled over onto his back and saw the empty beaker laying discarded on his desk, glaring down at him, accusing him of unspeakable crimes. Blackness clawed at the edges of his vision and pain swirled before his eyes like mist, reaching out towards him with icy tendrils, yet the image of the beaker remained. _"Guilty!" _it cried, _"Guilty!"_ Another painful convulsion wracked through his body, and the fog enveloped him. He struggled to surpass the haze, but the futility overcame him, and he knew no more.

---

The figure on the floor of the basement laboratory of the Chateau de Chagny started a most hideous transformation. It writhed and cried out in unspeakable pain as its body began to lengthen. The form had once been of a slightly average height was now one that easily surpassed two meters. Stout, calloused doctor's hands were replaced by unnaturally long-fingered ones, so pale and transparent that the knuckles were easily visible. The formerly golden locks of the man seemed to melt, becoming shorter and darker; an almost impossible shade of coal black. What used to be lightly tanned skin faded into pallor. Although quite remarkable, these transformations paled in the light of the man's head and face.

The skin upon his right side face dissolved until the blue veins were visible, along with the skull through its horridly fearsome transparency. Half of his nose seemed to collapse in on itself, and his skin bubbled and blistered. As he thrashed around, the left side was exposed, a fierce contrast to its companion. Although his right looked like that of a decomposing corpse's face, his left was fine-boned and well balanced. His face was contorted in agony, but it was undeniable that he was of a handsome breed.

Soon, his cries lessened, and he rolled himself over onto his back, panting from the exertion. Screwing his eyes shut, he groaned from the aching pain that exploded before his eyes. When they flew open a few seconds later, a startling difference was revealed. His destroyed side was paired with an equally odd eye, an amber color that seemed to glow in the dim candlelight. The left, however, was a clear, deep green, almost mocking its partner.

He lay still for a few minutes more, swimming back from the unstable world of mist and fog to the more concrete reality. Flipping over onto his stomach, he crawled across his laboratory floor and slouched up against the wall, exhausted. Something caught his eye, something long and pale and- "_Mon Dieu!"_ he exclaimed, studying his own hand with morbid fascination.

"Who is… what is this… creature?" he murmured to himself, astonished to find that his voice was now a toned, lyrical purr.

Clutching at the wall, he slowly pulled himself up, an action that looked more graceful than possible for a man of such height. He placed a steadying hand on the wall and started hobbling towards the door. As he took his first step, he was in agony. His shoes were suddenly confining, far too small. He gritted his teeth against the pain and kept moving slowly. Then, suddenly-

_Rrrrrip!_

With fright in his eyes, he looked down to see his pants hanging several inches above his ankles. He also noticed a large rip near the crotch of his pants.

"_Merde."_

He started looking around for a mirror. This man's former physical self was a rather good looking man and was a man of society as well, so he was constantly needed reassurance of his looks. He didn't have to search very long to find one; it was near the locked door of the laboratory, a small one, just big enough to reflect a face. He bent down and peered into its reflective surface.

Two manors down, Monsieur le Baron de Castelot-Barbezac jerked awake from a rather good dream to hear an unearthly roar of despair followed by many loud crashings.


	2. Memory

_**A/N:**_

_Sporky says_: Wow, guys! I'll just summarize my reaction when I saw all of the reviews and favorites and whatnot: I almost fell out of my chair with glee. Literally. If I knew that fan fiction would be this exciting, dang, I would have been writing a lot sooner than this. Anyhow, thank you! As for the chapter, there's not as much Raoul/Erik action (I mean that in the best of ways, having the split personality, of course), but I promise you that the next chapter has what you want.

_Hota says_: W00T! (/n3tsp33k) I'd give you guys all special replies for each of you (and that made little sense, but for once, I don't particularly care), but it seems my dear Sporky has already done that. All I have to say is: SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I LOFF YOU ALL!

Ahem. Better now. :D I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter, because it was a lot of fun to write… and yeah. Thank you guys so much:D :D :D

**Final Author Note, I Swear:** Well, I must say I didn't know about review responses not being allowed, thanks for telling me! I never visit the front page, so I obviously missed out on that. And now, the Long Author's Note from Hell is ending. Onto the chapter!

**Not really, because I am a liar: **As of April 23, 2006, chapter two has been edited and improved. There were quite a few things that needed fixing, so we fixed them. It should be much better now. :) Thanks for sticking with us, this is our first chaptered (ph)fiction.

_1881 – Paris, France_

Music. All she could hear, see, feel, taste, and smell was the music. Swirling around her, it enveloped her very being. With as much grace as she could, she skirted her way around the large elephant that was being hauled onto stage, and bit her lip slightly as she concentrated on the dance. _Développé_…._jeté_ …._glissade_…. _oh, what next? _

"_Arabesque_!Christine Daaé, the _arabesque_ follows the _glissade_! Get your head out of the clouds and concentrate!" Madame Giry's harsh bark was emphasized by a loud _bang _of her walking stick on the polished wood surface of the stage.

Jumping, Christine bubbled over with apologizes. The stern-faced ballet instructor would have none of it. Pulling the errant dancer over to the side, Mme. Giry began her infamous lecture on concentration. Christine pretended to listen intently, looking ashamed when needed, nodding at others. Over the instructor's shoulder, she saw the managers, Debienne and Poligny, followed by three strange men. They were too far away for her to make out what they were saying, but the managers were obviously showing the other men something. _I thought they did not give tours…_Christine wondered abstractly, before a resounding _thump_ near her foot brought her back to reality, which unfortunately included a now very peeved Madame Giry.

"Have you not been listening, child? How can you expect to be a contributing part of this _corps de ballet_ if you are off in the clouds dreaming throughout every practice? I know not what you dream of, but whether it be gentlemen, angels, or kittens, _ballet comes first! _You have a duty, and I will not hesitate to give your position to someone much more willing! Now, back to practice!"

Hustling back over to the group, which was now stretching, Christine settled herself down in a flurry of gauze and cloth. Mme. Giry always threatened to replace her, but Christine knew that she wouldn't. With Mama Valérius' health failing, the stern ballet instructor had taken the girl under her wing, and was quite comparable to a mother hen, squawking after her offspring. The stress of the upcoming production _Hannibal_ was weighing heavily on all the minds, only a week away.

Easing herself into a calf stretch, Christine peered over at the men to get a better look. Two of them, she noted, seemed to know each other quite well, for they grouped together, and the third man trailed behind. He was younger and seemed quiet and withdrawn. As they walked into the blinding glare of a stage lamp, the younger man brought his hand up to his eyes, squinting in a way that seemed…. _No, it couldn't be…_ Yet, the blonde hair looked so familiar….

_The first thing she remembered was the wind. Its fingers twirled her hair around, tossing it gleefully. She lifted her hands, laughing, and danced around in joy, her bare feet splashing into the surf as it tickled her toes. Spinning herself like the ballerina she'd seen months ago, she imitated grace and struck a pirouette._ Daddy would be so proud of me, _she thought faintly, saddening briefly at the thought of him not being able to enjoy the day with her, being sick in bed, for the fifth time this year._

_Her musings were soon redirected when the wind playfully tugged at her scarf. "Oh!" she gasped, as the wind suddenly lost all traces of merriness and ripped the scarf, her favorite red one, into the sea. Daddy had always told her never _ever _to go into the sea, and she didn't want to, either. The waves were so big, and she was so small…_

_Her lower lip was trembling and her eyes were tearing up as she watched the scarf frolic in the waves, dancing farther and farther away. Behind her, she heard the voice of a little boy._ "It's all right; I'll go and fetch your scarf out of the sea!"

_She turned around to see a young lad, blonde hair blowing all around his handsome face, come running towards her, then straight past her, then into the plunging waves! Watching, entranced, she saw him struggle with the current, swim a little ways, go underwater, come up sputtering, and battle with the water to reach her scarf. After what seemed like hours, he reached the floating piece of fabric, and turned back to the shore, grinning and punching his fist into the air triumphantly. _

_Floundering back to the shore, he knelt down on one knee in front of Christine, and looked up at her with a look of utmost honesty on his face. _"I offer you this as a token of my undying love." _He bashfully held up the sopping wet scarf, looked at it, and sighed. _"Well… it's not much, but…" _Little Christine silenced him by kissing him on top of his wet blonde mop. _"Of course it's enough. My name is Christine, what's yours?"

---

Although she was still inside the Opera house, but Christine could almost smell the salt from the beaches of northern France. She stood up and went through her dance routine, but mid-_jeté,_ another memory came to mind…

_"Raoul, what's that?" Christine asked, inquisitively peering over her comrade's shoulder. _

_"It's kind of hard to explain… my brother bought it for me, he says it's a…it's a... chem-stry set? Look! If I mix the blue bottle with the orange..."_

_Fascinated, Christine watched as Raoul poured the blue liquid into a glass bottle, followed by the yellow. "But… Raoul, you said orange…"_

_Aghast, Raoul looked at the bottle in his hand. Yellow shone up at him. Fearfully, he glanced back at the concoction before him as it started to froth and bubble. "Uh oh… Christine… watch out!" _

_He dove on top of her, trying to cover her with his own body as a shield against the impending disaster. A quiet _whump_ was heard from the bottle, and the room started to fill up with smoke. Coughing, Raoul grabbed the nearest part of Christine- her arm- and dragged her outside. _"My God! Christine! Are you all right?"

_He started to pound her on her back when he finally heard her voice. _"Raoul, please! I'm fine!" _She giggled, hiding her mouth with a dainty hand. _

_Wordlessly, he pulled her into a tight hug, which said what words couldn't: _I'm so glad that you're all right.

_---_

Her thoughts fluttered about like trapped butterflies, hither and thither, bumping into each other, off and around, never stopping to catch a breath. She couldn't get her mind off Raoul. _It's been so long… _she thought wistfully, smiling as she gathered up her shoes after practice. _Maybe he'll see me and remember! _

Time seemed to stop as she walked past her former childhood friend. _More than friend, if my memory serves me right, _she thought, containing her self-conscious grin. She looked pointedly at him, and he turned her way. He first looked over her head, at the vacant theater, and then slowly, so slowly his gaze came closer to her. His eyes met hers, and Christine forgot to breathe. He was older, yes, but he still had the same eyes. Smiling, she began to say something, but was interrupted.

"Monsieur de Chagny! If you'll come with me, I'll show you the rest of the Opera! Back here, we have the stage wings…."

Christine watched; face falling, as Raoul jerked at the sound of M. Debienne's voice. The man trailed after the group, dragging his heels. She stood there gaping for a moment, and then straightened up. _He didn't know me; he doesn't remember! He doesn't remember, did I really mean that little to him! He doesn't remember me…_She despondently moved towards her dressing room, hearing but not listening to the talk of the girls.

"Did you see the managers?"

"Ooooh, who ever were they leading around? To old men, and one _young_ one!" a girl proclaimed, swaying her hips.

"Sorelli, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! What would Phillipe think if he heard you?"

"Phillipe isn't here, is he?"

Another voice chimed in. "I wonder if the blonde one would be good in bed!"

Peals of laughter followed. "I don't know, he looked like he was haunted! Once you had him pinned down," The girl speaking made a growling noise, "He'd probably start crying!" Some girls had enough modesty to blush, while others just laughed coarsely.

The girl who had growled sauntered over to the nearest blonde-haired dancer and swung her hips around provocatively before grabbing the girl's wrists above her head and forcing her against a wall, making more animal noises. Playing along, the blonde girl collapsed in fake tears and convulsions. "And my father!" she heaved, "He beat me every night, and then when Maman died…."

Everyone laughed uproariously, while Christine clenched her fists. How dare they talk about dear, sweet Raoul that way? Stumbling into her dressing room, she stared at herself in the large mirror in the far corner of the room. A pale girl affronted her, brown curls astray from the morning's worth of ballet practice. Her slight form heaved a bit from the exertion of practice and her blue eyes had a troubled look about them. _A wreck, _Christine thought, _no wonder he didn't recognize me. _

"I wonder if the blonde one would be good in bed." She snorted. _Mama __Valérius_ _would slap my hand for not being lady-like, _she thought abstractly, and was surprised to find that the pain would be a welcome distraction to what she was feeling now.

Vaguely, Christine wondered why she was so bothered by the girls. It's not like Raoul was any more hers than he was someone else's. "But he _is_." She told her reflection in the mirror, stamping her foot in a childish way.

She sat down at her vanity table to tame her hair. The gentle stroking and pulling lulled her into a trance…

_The two sat on a rock near the shore, watching the setting sun turn the waves red. Occasionally, they would be showered in the salty spray as a large wave hit one of the rocks in ocean. _

"Raoul," _the girl asked, turning her petite chin up to look at her playmate, _"What makes the waves?" _Raoul stretched out his legs, and leaned up against Christine's back. _"Well,", _he started,_ "There's a big cliff way out that-a-way, so big that it reaches all the way up into the clouds and into Heaven!"

_Christine gasped, imagining such a cliff. Raoul shook his blonde head with laughter and continued with his story. _"And, you see, the angels like to have contests with each other to see who can make the biggest splash when they dive in the ocean. What we call waves is really the ripples of them diving into the water! Like… that one!" _The boy pointed to a large wave coming their way. _"That was the Angel of Faeries!"

_The wave slammed into the rocks, and little droplets of water cascaded down on the pair. Clapping gleefully, Christine watched for more waves. _"I think the Angel of Faeries did pretty well…. But oh! Oh! Raoul, look!" _A little finger pointed at a massive wall of water moving their way. _"Oh, this must be the Angel of Music!"

_She jumped up quickly, and balanced on the front of the rock, her arms outstretched like a figurehead on a ship as the wave rammed into the coast, utterly soaking her. Raoul watched quietly. Without thinking, he untangled his legs- he'd been having problems lately with the ungainly things- and walked over to her, standing closely behind her. He wondered what he was thinking, she would never take this from him, but his thoughts scattered as she leaned back into him. Tentatively, he put his arms around her tiny waist. _

_Her relaxation and obvious contentment lent him courage._ "God, Christine. I don't know what I'd do without you," _he murmured into her salty hair. She turned around to face him, blue eyes bright with curiosity, a question on her tongue. _"Sssh, you don't need to say anything." _Raoul said gently, placing a finger on her lips._

_He bent his head down to her level, and looked her straight in the eyes. _"Christine, I think I love you." _Her eyes widened a bit and her mouth gaped for a moment before she managed to whisper back at him. _"I think I love you, too".

_Christine closed her eyes expectantly. Smiling a bit, Raoul thought of all the fairy tales that he'd been told since he was young. _This is where I kiss her, _he thought. His resolve fluttered a bit, and then he steeled his nerves and brushed his lips against hers. She gasped a little, smiling, and hugged him close, resting her curls against his shoulder. _

_The last bit of the sun slipped over the horizon, and the two children stood at the edge of the ocean holding each other, both soaking wet. But they didn't care. _

---

A sharp knock shook Christine out of her reverie. "Christine? Are you in there?" Meg's voice called through her door, enticing the brunette out of her ponderings.

"Just a minute, Meg," Christine replied. She ran the comb through her hair once more, cursing as it got stuck on a nasty snarl.

"Come on, Christine! Rehearsals are about to start up again!" Meg's grey eyes twinkled mischievously.

As the two entered from one of the wings, they could hear La Carlotta, the resident diva, warming up. Christine admired her voice; she had not gotten as far as she had in the Opera for no reason. In her wildest dreams, Christine hoped to have half of Carlotta's talent. However, her attitude left much to be desired: she was good and she knew it.

Rehearsal went as normal. As the company cut off the final note, the curtain swished closed. With her next breath, the diva began to yell.

Meg gave Christine her "Here we go again" look. Arguments breaking out here were as common as the pigeons that roosted in the rafters of the opera house. Once on stage, the two did a few stretches so as not to hurt themselves while dancing, and they listened to Carlotta's complaining.

"I 'ate this song! Would you just look at the pretty dancers! They are _so_ pretty, if only they could dance!" La Carlotta yelled, pointing at the managers. "What ever happened to paying attention to real talent? Oh, I know; no one wants to look at me because _of my hat! _I 'ate my 'at!"

Christine giggled and looked over at Meg.

_She ate her hat? _Meg mouthed at her. Christine bent over and laughed outright. A sharp tap very near her toes caught her attention. She looked up into Madame Giry's scowling face. Christine blanched and promptly bit a knuckle to keep from laughing again. Meg just kept silently laughing at both Carlotta and Christine.

"Señora," one of the new managers tried to placate her. "Señora, please!"

Unfortunately for them, the Spanish singer would not be appeased.

"Armando, _traiga mi perro_." With her dog in hand, she turned towards the woe-begotten managers once more, "I 'ope they like _idiótas de bailar _because I am not performing! _¡Adiós!"_

"Wha—What are we going to do?" the short manager asked the other one.

"I don't know, André," he whispered the last bit for André's ears only. "_You_ are the one who is knowledgeable in music!"

André stuttered. André sweated. André looked from Madame Giry to Monsieur Reyer. André sweated some more. André wiped his face off. André was struck with an idea.

"Isn't there an understudy or something?" he asked Reyer.

"There is no understudy for La Carlotta!" Reyer replied as if André was the most unintelligent creature in the universe.

"But… why? Aren't all roles supposed to have an understudy?" André asked.

Monsieur Reyer sighed. "It's a new production, there _is_ no understudy."

"Christine Daaé could sing it, messieurs," Meg chirped from the wings.

"And just _who_ the devil would she be?" Firmin yelled as he whirled around to face the blonde dancer.

Meg glanced at Christine, a smile brightening her face. "Her!" She pointed to a mortified Christine, who got up and tried to run off stage. Meg caught her wrist and dragged her to the panicking men.

"Go on; show them what you've got! I've heard you, you can do it!" Meg whispered to her gaping friend.

At their wits end, the men conceded. "Very well. No one else is offering. Come now, let's hear you sing… You'll sing from… damn it all, Reyer, play her something to sing!"

The director eyed the shy girl. "I hope that you have some passing knowledge of this opera, if not, you will _not _be able to learn it all in the week we have until opening night."

"Monsieur, my teacher has been covering all of the main pieces with me for the past few months. He… he thought it good for me to learn them."

"Then you will be familiar with the aria from act three. Your key?"

She stuttered her answer and moved to the side of the piano. _Breathe, remember what the Angel said. In and out, you'll do fine…. _

After a few quick warm ups, the familiar piano line began and she took a deep breath.

"Think of me… think of me fondly… when we've said goodbye…" her voice was a breathy whisper, and she saw horror reflected in the manager's eyes. Mme Giry banged her cane at some giggling girls, and she stopped and cleared her throat.

"André, this is doing _nothing _for my nerves!" she heard the managers whisper, and grew angry. _Nothing for your nerves? _Her anger lent her voice power, and she sung on.

"Remember me, every so often, promise me you'll try! On that day, that not so distant day, when you are far away and free—if you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me!"

Reyer finished out the song with her. "In my opinion, she will do fine."

A maid in the aisles of seats behind him gave a whoop, and Mme Giry shot her a withering glare, which silenced the errant girl. Christine smiled nervously at Reyer and Mme Giry. The two managers looked at each other and nodded.

"Well, gentlemen, we have our new Elissa." Firmin stated.

---

Christine lit a candle in the small little chapel of the opera house. It was small, grey and drab; the only things being of any interest were the candelabras with tiny portraits on them and the stained glass window of the Virgin Mary.

Christine blew out the lighter and knelt in front of one of the candelabras. The candle she lit had a small, faded portrait of a man with dark hair and bright eyes, engraved with the name Gustav Daaé.

"Papa," she whispered to the candle, "Papa, the most amazing things happened today! During morning rehearsals, the new patron came! You'd never guess who he was, Papa! It was _Raoul_! You know, the boy from Perros? But he didn't remember me, Papa," Her face fell a little. "Oh, well, it's been seven years at least since I've last seen him." She shrugged and grew silent. After a moment, her eyes sparkled to life again.

"You know what else happened, Papa? La Carlotta quit for the hundredth time, and the managers picked me to replace her! Can you believe it? It's like you always wanted, Papa! It's going to be a hard week for me, trying to learn the blocking and the minor parts of the role before opening night, but just think! Your little girl is to be a Prima Donna! And I have you and the Angel to thank for it. Thank you, Papa. I wish you were here to help me…"

_The easiest way to describe the day was grey. The clouds hung low and spat on the humble group of mourners below. The tombstones and carved angels were all varying shades of grey. The only bit of color was the lone red rose on the top of the black casket as it was lowered six feet below the surface of the earth._

_A young girl stood, garbed from head to toe in black. A tear traced its way from her glassy blue eyes down to her trembling pink lips, falling off her face as she mouthed "Papa…"_

_An elderly woman came up behind the girl and put one hand on the girl's shaking shoulders. She, too, was dressed in a black dress and veil, but her graying hair contrasted more so than the girl's brown hair. _

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, may God take you in His hands and guide you through the Gates of Heaven. Rest in peace, Gustav Daaé." _The priest's sermon droned on to its monotonous end as the coffin hit the bottom of the grave. An anguished cry tore from the little brunette's mouth as she fell to her knees._

"Papa!" _she pounded her fists on the ground._ "Papa, don't—don't leave! Don't leave me here, Papa…" _she whimpered._

_The old woman gently picked the girl up and held her close. _"He's in a better place now, Chrissie." _She murmured to the distraught youngling. _"And if you're a really good girl, maybe the good Lord will allow him to visit you. Shush, dear, let's go." _She set Christine down and held her hand. Christine gave no fight; she sniffled all the way back through the grey cemetery._

_Finally back at home, Christine ran to her bedroom and sunk down on the bed, sobbing. Up until that day, she'd been able to fool herself that Papa was just sleeping, but as she _saw _him in the casket, lowered into the ground, the stark reality had been too much. Papa…. Their walks by the sea, playing in the streets and carnivals in all the little towns, the stories, him comforting her after a vicious nightmare… gone. _

_In her mind, she heard her father telling her a bedtime story. It was her favorite, about Little Lotte's first recital after hearing the Angel of Music. She choked out another sob, and began to drift off towards sleep, smiling weakly through her tears._

Christine looked around the chapel. No one was there with her, no melodic voice to surround her being with its holy glory. Sighing, she stood and went back up towards the stage to rehearse with Reyer.

---

_**A week later**_

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." Raoul muttered to himself. "Players, players, players, and here are the best of them." He glanced down at the stage before him. There was someone— consulting the programme, he saw it was the tenor, Whatshisface- singing, and a large elephant being rolled onto the stage.

Raoul settled his face into his hand and sighed. He could only conjure up so much interest for music, although as of late, he'd been getting more and more involved, which was why he had persuaded Philippe to take up sponsoring this place. His brother had been willing to comply- after all, he did have considerable interest in a dancer, Sorelli. However, there were some times, like this, when he was bored out of his mind. "If you sing to that elephant any more, you fat old man, it's going to get up and leave. I'd recommend you stop before the audience joins it."

He drooled his way through the first two acts, possibly falling asleep during one point, he wasn't quite sure. He was just coming back to consciousness during the third act, and when he looked down onto the stage, there was a woman in white, singing a solo. She had a good voice, if a little timid. Knowing Carlotta to be anything but, Raoul picked up the programme and flicked to the cast list. Mlle. Carlotta was listed as Elissa, and this was certainly not her.

Blinking, he remembered an announcement that the managers had made before the show. Due to sickness, La Carlotta will not be performing tonight, they had said. Mlle. Christine Daaé was to replace her instead.

_Christine. Christine…. _the name stirred something deep inside of him,and a face floated in front of his eyes, a young woman surrounded by a halo of brown curls, her blue eyes shining as she looked lovingly past his shoulder. "_Angel…" _she mouthed, smiling. _Christine! _His memory suddenly overflowed. Christine Daaé! How could he _not _remember?

_It was a breezy day in Perros. The days were always breezy. Raoul was chasing after a little girl with innumerable chestnut curls flying behind her._

"Come on, Chrissie!"_ he called after her. The girl turned her head, sapphire eyes sparkling and laughed more. Raoul tried to speed up, but his legs were that of gawkish boy and he tripped._

_He landed on the gravelly road, but he kept rolling until he was rolling down a grassy hillside. Finally, a boulder stopped him. _

"Oof!"

"Raoul?"_ he heard Christine call. _"Raoul, you know how I hate playing hide and seek, come out now! Stop teasing me!"

_Raoul managed to grunt rather loudly, but was otherwise too winded by the fall to talk. He saw Christine's head peer down the hill. Her eyes widened and quickly filled up with tears._

"Oh, Raoul!"_ she cried as she ran down the slope towards him. _"Oh, Raoul, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to say —I didn't want—Raoul, please forgive me!"

_Raoul took a shuddering breath and sat up. _"Christine, I could nevernot forgive you."_ He said as he wiped the tears off of her face. _"Please don't cry, Lotte."

_Christine took his hand and helped him up the slope._

"Are you sure you can't stay for dinner?" _Raoul asked her one last time. Christine's head hung lower and she nodded mutely._

"I have to help Papa."_ She sighed and traipsed back towards her own home and her papa. Raoul walked with her and didn't mind the scolding he received for being late to dinner that night._

Raoul, lost in his memories, hadn't taken heed to the pain that was welling up in his stomach. As he was brought back to reality, it hit him like a slap in the face. Blanching, he turned to his brother, Philippe, and managed to stammer that he'd meet him at home, he just remembered something that he had to take care of right away. Philippe nodded, not even looking at his brother. _He's probably too busy trying to catch a glimpse of some poor girl's cleavage, the sod…_ Raoul thought, before quietly excusing himself from the box.

Once clear, he sprinted into a dark stairwell. _Not here, my God, if someone were to see… _He tried not to cry out in pain as his bones popped out of their sockets. Clutching at his face, he pushed away images of his face as it melted away.

Still gasping with pain, he crawled to into a broom cupboard and replaced his now too-small clothing for a fine evening suit, finishing the outfit off with a fedora, cape, and mask.

---

With a sigh, Christine picked herself up off the floor and gently dusted off her costume. "What am I still doing in this thing?" she asked no one in particular, and was alarmed when a voice answered her.

"I don't know, silly, but you'd better get changed before anyone sees you!"

Whirling around, Christine turned to face Meg. The blonde girl grinned at her. "Did I scare you?"

Christine nodded as she looked over her friend, still in her costume as well. "I could say the same about you, you know."

Giggling, Meg conceded defeat, and then held out her arm. "May I accompany the new Prima Donna of the Opera Populaire to her dressing room so she might prepare herself visit with her many callers, many of whom might be very rich, very eligible bachelors?"

"Why, certainly!" Christine hooked arms with her friend as they wandered to her dressing room. As they walked, Meg talked of idle little things: the weather, the new managers, and the likes.

"Meg, what's the matter?" Christine asked, seeing that something was troubling her friend. Meg looked her full in the face.

"Christine…. Where did it come from? Tonight! Your performance! I remember how last year you barely made the chorus, and now you go and-" she waved her hand, all her vehemence dying.

Grabbing her hands and pulling them close to her own, Christine hustled into a relatively empty corner.

"Do you remember what I told you about the Angel of Music?" Meg nodded. "Well… you're going to think that I have gone positively insane, but I… I've heard the Angel! I can feel him all around me, and he gives me lessons at night in my dressing room and you… you don't believe me, do you?"

"Oh, Christine, I wish I could! But I know that can't happen! It's like a fairy tale, Christine, and you know that those aren't real. There's no princess in the tower imprisoned by a dragon, and there's no shining knight to save her! It just doesn't happen! If you don't want to tell me who has been teaching you, that's all right, just please, don't lie to me."

Meg turned to leave, and caught sight of her friend's stricken, pale face. Smiling sadly, she offered Christine her hand again. "Come on Chrissie, you're pale and cold. Let's get you back to your dressing room; it's been a long night…"

---

Once back in her dressing room, a maid helped Christine undress from her Elissa costume and into her nightshift. Bidding the maid goodnight, she began to singing softly as she paced around her dressing room, winding down from a day of excitement. She was bubbling over with happiness, and was waiting eagerly for her angel to arrive. He was sure to come and tell her how well or how badly she did tonight. Sitting on her divan, she fervently hoped for the former of the two.

A low and beautiful voice from the mirror cut through her musings.

"_Christine…. the angels wept tonight…."_


	3. Is It The Ghost?

**From Sporky: **Well, goodness. I am REALLY sorry to those of you that I promised a update to, I'm a bloody liar, and you can beat me up and toss me in a lake to be with Lon, because I certainly deserve it. I'll give a lame excuse, if it makes you feel better- final exams. Yes, blame the finals.

Anyhow, I would gush forever with apologies, but I don't think that's a great way to spend time, and I doubt you want to read it. So, it'll work best for both of us if I stop. :D

**From Hota**: I firmly concede with the fact that our muses hate us. They sneak up in the middle of the night and go WHABAM! and then small countries wonder where the sky went.

…I just realized that that made absolutely NO sense. I'm sorry, dear reader(s). This is a semi-delusional Hota on Christmas Day. And I have the feeling this will make no sense in a minute or two. Oh well. Hopefully you'll find the chapter more entertaining than a lunatic Hota who can't update in a timely manner. (Sorry guys. I'm gonna go angst about stars and possibly jump off the bow of the Good Ship Javert/Chauvelin OTP.)

---

_1879 – Paris, France_

The evening had started out innocently enough. Raoul had gone for a few drinks with Jean Louis Castelot-Barbezac, a close friend and neighbor of his, and his brother, Philippe. The three of them had been, as Philippe liked to call it, schmoozing. So far, it had been a stress free, enjoyable evening.

"I tell my father, there is no way that I'm going to invest in something as frivolous as that silly light bulb, it is never going to make it in the real world! Of course, he insists that it will sweep the world and I'll be sorry, but I suppose we will see in a few years, now won't we, my good lads!" Jean-Louis narrated, and the three laughed uproariously at this, knowing full well how futuristic the eldest Castelot-Barbezac was.

Raoul's laughter was a bit louder and more forced than his two comrades. In all honestly, he was feeling quite achy and sick. However, he dismissed it as mere nausea at the bout from the numerous colds going around. He started to get more concerned as he felt a grinding in the core of his being, and his heart skipped a beat and then sped up.

Eyes growing wide, he stammered out an apology of sickness and too many drinks and dashed out of the crowded gentleman's club, down the street, and into any patch of darkness that he could find. Heaving, Raoul leaned heavily upon a brick wall. His world was spinning, and everything had a crimson, demonic aura.

Taking a few deep breaths, he tried to suppress the feeling of his stomach crawling through his throat. He was fairly sure he had succeeded, and was stepping back out through the street when he was suddenly doubled over with a fit of pain. "Oh, sweet Jesus!" he moaned, falling to the ground. "Take the pain away!"

All through his body, he could feel and hear his bones popping and growing. Needles of pain defined his world. He felt as if his face was being sawn off and his limbs were dropping off of their own accord. Out of instinct, he curled into fetal position and whimpered.

He was a lanky heap of a man, trembling on the ground. After a few moments, the form stopped shaking, and rose lithely. A melodic voice rang out softly, "Free…"

After a moment's hesitation, the man shouldered his cloak's hood over his head, covering the unsightliness of his face. He stepped out into the light looking very out of place. Voices nearby attracted his sensitive hearing.

"'Ello, monsieur," a red-headed woman purred at a man on the other end of the street.

A short, grubby man in a shabby top hat weaved his way over to her. "Hello, Lucille," He slurred through the many drinks he'd obviously had that night. "Do you have any time for me tonight, m'dear?"

"When would I not have time for you?" she murmured, clasping her arms about the little man's neck, and pulled him into the darkness of the alley.

He could hear every moan, every gasp, every pant.

"Disgusting. Filth like that should not walk this earth," the cloaked observer finally spoke. Searching the ground, he found a length of rope, and began knotting it as he listened to the two writhing in the darkness, his blind fury building. He stalked over to the alleyway, where he saw the two of them entwined in an intimate embrace. So involved were they that they didn't see a shadow creeping up behind them. Taking advantage of this, the apparition brought the rough noose down upon the man's neck.

Upon the opposing wall, silhouettes danced. A tall man was holding a short figure on a string, making him flit about, arms flailing around. With a tug of the string, like a puppeteer, the small figure twirled into the embrace of the large one, gracefully falling into his arms. Like a lover, the string master bent down to whisper in his puppet's ear.

"_Tell Lucifer that Erik Fente sent you._"

The shade pulled on the rope violently, and the puppet broke and fell to the ground.

A low scream reminded Erik of the prostitute who was hunched up against the wall, her hands splayed over her face, but peering through her fingers. When he turned to look at her, she shuddered, her face saying what her words could not.

"Well, mademoiselle, if you'll rut with scum like him, a corpse should be no matter for you." Erik growled, realizing that his hood had fallen down.

"Oh, God!" She screamed. "No, _never_!" She tried to stand, but found Erik's cold hands shoving her bare shoulders to the brick wall.

"I don't think you have a choice, _Lucille_."

"I'd rather die." She spat on his face, yet there was fear in her eyes. Erik merely grinned at her.

"Well, my lady, I can arrange that. Send your lover my compliments." With a flesh-colored blur, his hands were on the prostitute's neck, choking the life out of her. She scratched at his face, leaving welts along his already disfigured visage. She flung her slight weight around as much as she could, and tried to pry her long nails underneath the long pale fingers that withheld her air. Slowly, slowly, her fighting became weaker and weaker, and her eyes bulged out before growing dim, the light fading, fading…

Erik released the woman and let her corpse slide down the wall and fall limply onto the cold alleyway. He flexed his hands. Never before had he felt such power flowing through him. His new strength and abilities had a strange sweet taste that he felt he could never tire of.

"You, there!" called a voice from the entrance of the alleyway.

Erik slowly turned his head towards the noise. The gendarme froze.

"_Mother of God_…"

Erik let out a mirthless laugh and sauntered past the young officer.

"He—HEY!" he called towards Erik. "Did—Did you kill these two?"

Erik spun on his heel and faced the man. Despite all of his clothing being too short, he made an impressive figure with a malicious glint in his mismatched eyes.

"What do you think, monsieur?" he spoke throatily, but not quite in a growl.

"_Monster_!" the gendarme cried. He took out his pistol and aimed at Erik's chest. "You filth, you are under arrest by order of the Emperor!"

Erik smirked at the boyish officer, who was shaking visibly, the gun about to fall from his sweaty grasp. "I'd like to see you catch me, boy." With that, he turned and sprinted down the nearest street.

"Halt! Halt, you fiend! _In the name of the law, HALT_!" he heard the officer call after him, shouting through the shocked people scattered about the street.

Left, right straight, left, left again, right, back down Rue Scribe. _Damn!_ he thought, _The bloody opera house! People will be swarming out of here soon! _He spied a storm drain, and out of desperation, pried the bars open and slid inside. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the moonlit path before starting off at a sprint again.

He ran until he could no longer hear the ragged breathing of the pursuing policeman. As soon as he thought that he was safe, he took closer look around himself. There was no longer any muted moonlight from the foggy night sky. He heard water dripping down into the lake, whose shore he stood upon, and the occasional scurry of a rodent into a hole in the wall. Touching the walls, he found them moist and covered in moss.

Faintly, he heard footsteps pounding down the path behind him. Cursing, Erik quickly ducked into one of the many shadows near. The young gendarme didn't notice the abundant dampness and ran directly into the black lake. With a grim smile, Erik slipped into the lake after him, and waded to the thrashing child.

"Honestly, boy, don't they teach you how to swim?" Laughing, he held the gendarme under the water just enough so that he could see the air that his body cried out for, could see the wickedly deformed face of his murderer shimmering through the water.

For the second time that night, he felt fingernails claw at his flesh. Sooner than the prostitute, the gendarme stopped fighting and went limp. Erik released him and stood up straight in the waist deep water.

"_Bravi_, boy," the velvety voice of the murderer murmured. Looking up from the blue-white face of the drowned gendarme, Erik looked across the lake.

Dimly, he saw a flicker of candlelight. A smirk took hold of his mismatched face once more as he headed around the lake, slogging as silently as he could in the shallows. The light started to grow dimmer, but he increased his pace and reached the light's side of the lake. He stepped out of the lake, his trousers dripping loudly. The light stopped moving.

"Who's there? Meg? Is that you?" a woman's voice called softly, with a trace of panic. Erik's smirk broadened into an evil grin.

"Only a ghost, madame," he replied, drawing nearer from behind.

She stiffened. "_Mon Dieu_," the woman breathed, crossing herself. "My Meg, what have you done with my Meg!"

"Ahhh, little Meg…" he whispered, cocking his head a bit. "My good Madame, I think you would find her quite safe if you were to lead the way to a place where a spirit could find some decent clothes. Oh, and Madame- I would advise you not look behind you." He sang the last bit into her ear, "_Or you'll be a ghost, as well_…"

The woman gulped, keeping her eyes straight in front of her. "Very well, _Monsieur Fantôme_, I will take you to the costume room, if only for my daughter's sake."

---

Chuckling, Erik congratulated himself on the wonderful act he had put up. _Ingenious, I hope the woman finds her brat so I've got some credibility. Monsieur Fantôme_, _indeed!_

The woman had led him to a large room filled with racks upon racks of clothing, and then fled for her life and her daughter. Most were hugely elaborate dresses, which Erik disregarded for obvious reasons. Instead, he focused his attention on the more masculine articles. He realized, however, that "masculine" could barely be applied to the clothing in the room.

Flicking through the hangers, his hopes for even finding a decent article of clothing fell. He found several interesting articles, including a pink confection of lace, a ribbon-bedecked yellow fop costume, and many large, flouncing hats on the shelf above the rack.

He looked through two more racks before finally giving up hope for finding anything that was even remotely suitable to wear. He was halfway through a fourth rack when he found something of interest. It was an enormous black opera cloak with many embroideries and black beads sewn into the shoulders and back of the cloak.

"My, my, what have we here?" Erik murmured.

He took the cloak off of its hanger and held it at arm's length. The small beads sparkled in the little bit of light left from the candle lit near the door. The cloak was a very fine and well-tailored article of clothing. Despite the beading, there was no doubt that it was a masculine object.

"Oh yes, I like this very much," Erik smirked and took off Raoul's too-short cloak and replaced it with the grand one he had been admiring. "Magnificent."

Feeling rather full of himself, he took to examining the rest of the costumes. There were many odd pieces of faux armor lying around. When Erik was moving to a new rack, he absent-mindedly kicked a peeling breastplate out of the way, and immediately regretted doing so. His feet took this moment to remind him of their painful confinement. How had he forgotten?

"Bloody blue bloods and their small feet," he muttered darkly as he sat down to remove the Vicomte's shoes. Carefully, he eased his aching feet out of the shoes. Finally free, he wiggled them about to regain circulation. As he was about to lob the shoe into the darkness, he noticed something peeking out from under the breastplate. A portion of a white mask was staring at him with one eye. He quickly lost any intention of throwing the shoe.

Cautiously, Erik pulled the mask out from under the faux armor and examined it. It was a huge domino mask that covered from the upper lip all the way to the hairline. The leather was smooth on both the painted front and the unfinished underside. A ripped length of dirty, black ribbon came out from the edges of the mask at about eye level.

Fascinated, Erik held the mask up to the dim light coming from the door, which was propped open. He brought a pale hand up to his ravaged face, massaging it gently, and then reverently placed the mask over it, savoring the feel of the cool leather against his face. The mask was a bit too large, but as he struggled to tie the broken ribbons, he found himself strangely fearless in the face of humanity. The mask could be trimmed to only cover what was needed, and hiding in the shadows would no longer be necessary. _I am not asking to be normal, _he thought grimly, _just to be presentable. Just in case an "opportunity" arises… I can't stroll about the streets with half my face gone._

He stood up and smoothed back his hair with both hands and let them continue down to readjust his cloak, letting it pool out around him, almost allowing him to meld with the shadows around the room. When he was standing at his full height, the contrast of the mask and cloak completed his commanding look.

A gasp came from the doorway. _"Maman?"_ the voice of a young girl queried. Peering into the slim bar of light, Erik saw the silhouette of a teenage girl. Poised just inside the door, her soft voice trembled as she asked for her mother again. _Oh dear, it seems little Meg has wandered a bit far from home… who else could it be?_

"Meg, my dear, how nice it is for you to come," Erik nearly sang to the youth. The girl's eyes opened even wider.

"H—How do you know my name?" she cried almost inaudibly.

Erik smiled thinly and simply stated: "What does a ghost _not_ know?"

Meg stumbled backwards, tears flowing down her face. She turned around and started screaming wildly. "_Le_ _Fantôme de L'Opéra! Le Fantôme!_"

He laughed dryly and melted into the shadows.

---

"_MAMAN!" _Meg sobbed as she charged blindly down the corridor, as if she was being chased by the devil himself. Her blonde hair streamed out behind her, her hair ribbon long lost. Finally finding her way to the ballet dormitory, she heaved herself up against the door before fumbling the doorknob open.

She threw herself into the room, interrupting a gossip circle of blonde heads. "Meg? _Mon Dieu, _what has happened?" Sorelli crooned as she drew the shaking girl into a friendly embrace. Meg violently shook her head and gasped for a breath. "Oh, dove, what did Stefan do? I _told _you he was no good! With older men like that, you can only get into trou—"

"No!" Meg panted. "I….looking for Maman…costume room…. Sorelli, _I saw a ghost!" _

The girls gathered around her, interest shining in their eyes. "A ghost, Meggie?" "Was he transparent?" "A man or a woman?" "Oh, Meg, you're so brave! I would have just fainted on the spot!" "Did you talk to it?"

Sorelli, in a display of her leadership over the loud group of girls, clapped her hands together loudly. "Girls! Give her some room to breathe, I'm sure she'll tell us the whole story in time, but not if she dies of asphyxiation!"

The mob quieted down, and settled down on the floor around Meg, who had finally lost the wild look in her eye. "Well, I skipped practice this morning to go see Stefan—"

Meg was interrupted by several whistles and giggles. She shot the girls withering looks and flipped her hair. They might call him a good-for-nothing stagehand, but they didn't _know_ him, they just saw what every pompous dancer saw—someone below them.

"_No," _she enunciated, "Nothing happened. I couldn't even find him! So, I go for a walk, because practice isn't over yet, and I'll need to look flushed as I'm lying in bed pretending to be sick. Of course, I have to go roaming around in the cellars, because no one is down there to see me. After about an hour, I come back up.

"Now, I'm on my guard for Maman. Perhaps I was a bit paranoid, because it seemed like all the shadows were reaching out for me, trying to grab a hold of my skirts!" For emphasis, she reached out her hand and lunged at all the girls around her. A few laughed nervously.

"I'm passing by the costume room when I hear some rustling. You girls know how they are fanatical about keeping the door closed so that the costumes stay in tact longer… well, the door was open.

"I had to investigate. I opened up the door a bit more, and slipped inside when it slammed shut with a huge bang! Terrified, I scrambled towards where the door had been, only to find _that it wasn't there."_

The reaction was astounding. A girl screamed, and several others covered their mouths in shock. Meg, basking in the attention, plunged forth into her tale.

"I was afraid to breathe. I kept telling myself to calm down, it was just a breeze that had blown the door shut, but then I heard a voice. 'Meg Giry!' it sang to me in the most melodious voice ever! After it repeated my name a few times, getting closer each one, I felt breath down the back of my neck, and my whole body grew cold. I felt him—I'm sure it was a man—reaching through my skin for my very soul, trying to snatch it away so that he could feed on it and grow stronger!

"Well, as frightened as I was, I am no fool! I remembered what Joseph Buquet told us about ghosts. "What in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost do you want?" I asked, trying to stop my voice from trembling. Suddenly, he was in front of me. I tried to turn to try to find the door again, but I couldn't! I was rooted to the spot. He was laughing, and oh, I hope I never hear the sound again! There was such mirth; he was a demon straight from the bowels of Hell!" She shuddered, and then continued.

"He was walking straight towards me, five feet away, four, three, two, one, he was right up this close to me!" She put her hand in front of her face to demonstrate the closeness. "I could see his face! He had flaming yellow eyes, and a white mask covering his _entire _face! And a huge black cape! He stared at me for what I could swear was a lifetime, and then, with another laugh, was gone!

"As soon as he left, the door cracked back open, just to my left! Naturally, I ran as fast as I could down here. I would rather face Maman any day than that horrid ghost again! So, here I am, telling you about _Le_ _Fantôme de L'Opéra…"_

Terrified, the pale girls squeaked and grasped each other's hands for support. "Meg, you must be exhausted!"

Sorelli took it upon herself to escort Meg to her bed. "That was _terrifying_, Meg! You're so brave, _mon ami_, I would have died!"

As Meg snuggled underneath her woolen blankets, she heard the other girls murmuring about the brave Mlle. Fantôme and her brush with the ghost. Why, by the way the story was growing, she was practically the ghost's lady now! With a smile, Meg started to drift into a troubled sleep. Shortly after closing her eyes, the ballet dormitory door opened wide again.

"Girls," she heard her mother say softly. "Sorelli? Have you seen my Meg?"

Sorelli looked up from the gossiping circle that she was engrossed in, recounting Meg's adventure. Meg shut her eyes tight and hoped to anything remotely holy that Sorelli wouldn't snitch on her.

"Yes, Madame, she just returned from the bathroom a few minutes ago," Sorelli lied innocently. Mme. Giry nearly sagged against the doorway with relief but held herself together.

"Thank you," she said. Closing the door, Mme. Giry slid down the door and sat on the top stair, moaning with relief. "_She's safe, he didn't get to her…_"

Within the dormitory, Meg tossed and turned restlessly, but she could not get the image of the masked man out of her head. She only felt slightly bad for telling such a lie, but it got Sorelli, of all the girls, to call her _brave. Meg Giry, Mlle.Fantôme, brave! _She smiled to herself, and rolled over again.

Still not finding sleep, she re-adjusted her other side, only to find a note sitting on her bed stand. Sitting up, she picked up the note and read it in the dim light.

_Mademoiselle Giry,_

_I believe that you lost this in your hurry back to your dormitory. _

_Signed,_

_Monsieur Fantôme de L'Opéra_

Underneath the neatly folded note lay her hair ribbon.


	4. Failure to Comply

**Author's Notes: **

_Sporky- _I'll be the first to gush out annoying apologies for lack of updates. Pardon my French, but this chapter was a _bitch. _It took me until I was confined in a car for a few hours with a laptop to get it started, but goodness, I hope never to be inflicted with such horrible writer's block ever again. In happier news, long spaces between updates will probably become regular, because Hota and I have chaotic schedules this semester. :DHurrah! However, the story will start getting interesting in the next few chapters, so maybe they'll flow easier. Maaaayybe. With that said, enjoy the chapter! It'll probably be a few weeks before the next one is out. 

Hota- …Sporky's on crack. _(No I'm not.)_ Chaotic schedules usually do not mean more regular updates. : D Oh well. I just hope you guys don't mind these appearing randomly. I think we're pretty good about every 2 or so weeks, right? …I think… I'm sorry, this makes no sense, but I'm listening to Spamalot. Hahahaha… Please review. Especially you. stares pointedly at Masque

---

**_Three days before the opening performance of _Hannibal**

Music. All he could hear, see, taste, feel, and smell was the music. Swirling around him, it enveloped his entire being. With a quick, clean shift into seventh position and a slight trill, Erik pulled the bow to the very tip and ended the song with a soft decrescendo.

He was quite content to stand and bask in the afterglow of the still-ringing note; his fingers still absently holding the holding the vibrato to soften the resonance as it bounced off the stone walls of the cellars. When the last note could no longer be heard, he set the violin down in its blue velvet case and ran a little cloth against the rosin-coated strings. Hands, whiter than normal with rosin dust, snapped closed the lid, depositing the case in its place of honor next to his jet-black piano.

Erik wandered around the room, straightening things up, brushing the dust off of various statues and piling scattered music. He felt a bit ridiculous, but everything had to be perfect. Such an opportunity would only present itself once, and Raoul, the fool, had blindly given him the upper hand. It would be such a shock to the Vicomte when he discovered that Erik had gotten to Christine before he did!

However, some things must be arranged before he could take Christine into his home. The house of a half-sane bachelor had to undergo some serious improvements before it would be fit to be graced with an angel. And right now, it needed food.

Walking into the kitchen, he checked the cupboards for food. The first cabinet he opened consisted almost completely of tea, with a few lemons and a jar of honey hiding inside, as well.

"Plenty of tea," he remarked dryly.

In the next cabinet, there was flour and a few pieces of dried fruit. In the last cabinet, there was a little coldbox, containing a tub of butter, half a dozen brown eggs, and an empty cream container.

"Damn it, I hate going to the kitchen."

With a sigh, he reasoned that his angel was worth the trip to the Opera's kitchens, despite the rancid smell of rotting meat. Gathering up a bag, he walked over to a seemingly solid wall, and pressed two fingers into the grouting.

A step to his left, a wall melted from sight. With a smirk, Erik regarded his own creation and stepped into the tunnel, winding his way to the larders of the Opera.

Looking about cautiously, he checked for any kitchen-maids or sneaky ballet rats who would be trying to slip a snack between practices. After a few minutes he deemed the pantries empty and stalked in, holding his breath. Picking up a few foodstuffs on the way, he found his way to the large cold room and nicked some milk and cream, and made his exit.

Upon arriving back at his lair (secretly, he reveled in such a sinister sounding name), he made a check through one last time, and then made his way to the laboratory. There, he found the potion that would make him Raoul again. The doctor had to make public appearances and his family and friends would start to worry if he spent so much time "away on business".

Erik was almost positive that Raoul had no idea about his plans. He had covered almost every track that he could, and although Raoul knew about the lessons, he could not get inside Erik's mind, unlike his alter ego, who could shuffle through Raoul's very thoughts. _Not that there's that much there, in the first place. Honestly, I am surprised that the imbecile has lived this long without dying from the utter boredom of his mind. The boy has no music!_

He was a little apprehensive about Raoul. Erik knew that the boy had a history with Christine, and wasn't going to give her up without a struggle. Although his adversary was weak and naïve, Erik didn't know what love would do to the young man. Erik wasn't a fool, he had made the extra precaution of a draught of the potion that would assure his dominance for several more days, which he would drink upon Christine arriving in his lair.

Everything was in order, now all he had to do was wait.

---

**_Opening night of _Hannibal**

He was waiting. Raoul, who was lost in his boyish thoughts of Christine, had let his defenses down for a moment, which gave Erik all the opportunity that he needed. Gently at first, he wound himself around Raoul's mind, giving the boy proper warning of what was to come.

Raoul, all too familiar with the feeling, tried to fight it, tried to push Erik out of his mind, but to no avail. He was forced to concede, again. As he blurted an excuse to Philippe, he dashed out the door and down into a corridor where some clothes and a mask were kept.

Taking a few deep breaths, Erik opened the door and slunk into the darkness.

By creeping through the shadows, he reached the passage-way behind Christine's mirror. He allowed himself to be seen once, to frighten a little ballet rat, the Mademoiselle Fuller. _They've been needing some stirring up_, he thought. The girl saw the flash of his mask and ran off screaming.

Yes, there would certainly be some ghost stories tonight. But not for him. Although he usually delighted in hearing how a girl came within mere _inches _of her death, he had other plans tonight.

---

"Christine," his voice rang through her mirror, "the angels wept tonight."

Her back stiffened as she sat at her mirror, brushing her hair absently. With a look of absolute rapture, she turned around.

"Oh, Angel, I felt as if I was granted wings! You never told me that singing was so closely related with flying!" she chided him gently.

"Ah, I do believe I forgot that part." Then, growing serious, he continued. "Christine, in honor of your success, I have a special present for you. My angel, come to your mirror!"

He picked up the violin that he had stowed behind the mirror and began to play, watching as Christine's eyes widened in recognition. "Come! Believe in me! Whosoever believeth in me shall not die, but have eternal life!" he called, triggering a switch with his foot that swung the mirror around so she could see a form in black with a violin. "Come! Walk!"

Entranced, she dropped the brush and walked to the darkness. "Angel…." She murmured. He walked slowly backwards, beckoning her with his music. She followed willingly, stretching her arms out to the figure playing the music so familiar to her.

Gently, Erik let the shimmering last note fade, and he stretched out his black-gloved hand to her, careful to keep his mask turned away from her. She hesitated, and then placed her small hand in his, gasping at the coldness. "Angel?" she asked softly.

In a moment of idiocy, he turned to face her, mismatched eyes glinting in the light from her opened mirror, yards away.

As soon as she caught sight of his mask, she pulled her hand back, clutching it to her breast. "You're no angel!" she whispered. "You're... You're the ghost!" With a scream, she had turned to run back into her dressing room when Erik caught her and pressed a hand to her mouth, holding her back to his chest.

"My apologies." He breathed close to her ear.

She went limp in his arms.

---

_Women, _he thought darkly. _You can always count on them to faint at the most inconvenient of times. _He gently shifted the sleeping form of Christine in his arms, trying to get a better grip on her. She moaned in her sleep, and curled her small hands around his neck, snuggling into his chest.

Taking a gasping breath, he dared not move her again. Even though she was in the throes of sleep, to be touched willingly by her was such an exotic, unfamiliar thrill. He walked slower, relishing in the moment, not wanting to put her down in the boat.

If he were to stall much longer, she would surely wake up and the sky would come crashing down upon him. Grudgingly, he handed his angel into the cold, unfeeling embrace of the boat and took up his position at the rear, punting the gondola along the black surface of the water.

About halfway through the ride, she stirred, lifting her head to see over the rim of the boat. Immediately upon seeing the water gliding past, she pulled herself up over the rim and threw up, which induced another fainting spell.

Erik was speechless. He was almost positive that angels didn't get seasick, let alone throw up. However, this was the most fortunate incident, because he would not have to deal with an angry Christine in the middle of Lake Averne.

After checking on her to make sure she was all right, he hastened on his way back to his lair. As he reached the dock, he tied the boat and lifted her lovingly out, and carried her to the bed, placing her upon the satin covers.

It took all of his willpower not to stay there, next to her, absorbing the sight of her in his bed, her brown curls splayed over his pillow, her hands nestled in his covers. _One day, _he told himself. _One day, you'll overcome Raoul and she will be yours… _

With that thought to comfort him, he headed to the laboratory to take his potion.

---

"CHRISTINE MARIE DAAE!"

Christine knew Mama Valérius was going to be angry. She had full right to be. Hanging her head, Christine turned to face the angry, bedridden woman.

"Just where do you think you have been this past week, child?" she whispered in a low voice. "You just _disappear _after your first major performance! Do you not think of your poor Mama Valérius, waiting here for you to come to me?"

"I've been in Hell, Mama!" Christine sobbed, throwing herself into the arms of her guardian and letting the tears flow. The woman's hands clasped around the girl's heaving body, pulling her into the bed, gently stroking her messy curls as the girl sobbed. "Hush now, dear, it's all right. Tell Mama what happened, you can tell me…" she crooned, rubbing Christine's back.

Christine hiccupped and shook her head. _No! _she wanted to cry. _I don't want to have to think about it! Mama, make it stop, make him go away! _ Mama tutted and rubbed the girl's back some more, thinking it to be over some silly man. _That Simon fellow is probably giving her trouble again, I'll get up out of bed and beat that rogue with my walking stick if he so much as sends her more flowers! _

Eventually, Christine's crying diminished and turned into steady, rhythmic breaths. Mama Valérius took the chance to study the troubled youth's face. In sleep, Christine used to look so innocent, like an angel, but now her eyebrows were furrowed in sadness. Her eyes were ringed with black and red, from crying and lack of sleep. The girl's pale skin looked like a death's pallor in the dimly lit room. She was a mess.

Grimly, Mama vowed to give that Simon fellow a piece of her mind.

---

It had been a mistake. All of it, a mistake. A terrible, horrible, mistake.

He had never meant for things to get this… this…. He couldn't think of the proper word. Groaning, he leaned his head up against the wall, as if the sturdy structure would have some advice to give him.

The wall, as walls usually are, was silent.

It had all started when she had woken. He had given into the most innocent of his desires; which was to stand across the room and watch her sleep. Such an innocent being, such a child, and she would be _his. _His to love, his to cherish, his to take to his bed every night, his forever.

Can it be helped that the soft curve of her cheek tempted him, even from his vantage point? Erik took slow, mesmerized steps towards his angel. Without even realizing it, he stood beside her, and his gloved hand was reaching towards her sweet face. A hair's breadth from her skin, he stopped.

How dare he attempt to sully such beauty with his touch? Sighing softly to himself, Erik traced the air above her cheekbone. She started to stir, but he refused to admit that she was waking. Christine's dark lashes fluttered against her ivory cheeks.

For a moment, Erik entertained the idea that she would stay calm. For a moment, he pretended that she was already his. "Good morning, my dear."

Those four words shattered his illusion.

Christine let out an otherworldly scream, staring at Erik in horror. She scuttled backwards until she hit the headboard. Erik backed away slowly, raising both of his hands. He wasn't quite sure why he did this, but it seemed to calm Christine down a little. She fell silent, but her deep blue eyes were still wide with fear.

"Who—Who in God's name are you?" she whispered.

"I am Erik."

Christine's shoulders slowly relaxed. "Are you not the—the Opera Ghost?"

"I am only Erik."

She blinked, as if trying to remember something. " And… the—the Angel of Music… was he 'only Erik,' too?" Her blue eyes blazed angrily.

"I am sorry, mademoiselle. I never meant to disturb you." Erik bowed his head slightly and turned to leave the room.

A lone tear trekked down her cheek. "_Papa…_" she muttered so softly that even Erik had difficulty hearing it. "_Papa, he didn't come…._" Christine drew her knees to her chest and hugged them fiercely as she sobbed silently.

_Was the Angel that important to her? _Erik pondered to himself. _How innocent she is…. _He turned and walked over to his piano in the other room. With half a mind, he noticed that the laboratory's door was open, but he was worrying about Christine right now, not that foolish boy.

Sitting at the piano's bench, he began to play a soft melody. He poured in all of his adoration and devotion for Christine into the sweet piece. Slowly, he heard little footsteps make their way towards him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christine peek her head around the sides of the door frame.

Her eyes were rimmed with red and were a bit swollen. Timidly, she stayed by the door frame, a small hand gripping the side. She gazed, unfocused, at the space between herself and Erik.

Softly, Erik added a wordless song to his fingers' dance on the keys. Christine slowly slid down the door frame, a pained expression on her face.

"Stop it, please," she gasped. Erik immediately stopped both his singing and his piano's music. The silence became almost unbearable, but he didn't dare meet her eyes. All he would see were accusations. Beast. Liar. Monster.

Standing slowly, he made his way over to Christine. He offered his hand to her to help her up. Christine made no move to take it. She made no move to do anything. For all appearances, she seemed content to sit on the floor and weep. Kneeling, Erik placed her hand in his. Christine flinched and withdrew her hand.

"Don't touch me."

The words echoed through his head. Erik's mismatched eyes frosted over and he stood, towering over the girl.

"As you wish, mademoiselle," he ground out through clenched teeth.

---

It was many hours later before Erik dared to approach Christine again. His melting heart had been frozen over once more by her cold words.

She was still staring at nothing in particular between herself and the piano. Erik stood before her stiffly.

"Stand up, mademoiselle." He did not offer any sort of gentlemanly assistance. "It is time you should eat."

"I'm not hungry." Her voice was as dull and bleak as it was on the first day he heard her sing. Emotionless and lost.

"Regardless of hunger, you will not sit there all day."

"I shall do what I want. I do not obey people I don't know."

Erik's eyes flashed furiously. The nerve of this girl! She was in _his_ home, slept in _his_ bed and was now attempting to _defy_ him? Angrily, he grabbed her upper arm and dragged her upright forcibly.

"_Mademoiselle_, it would be wise to do as I say," he growled at her.

Christine looked up at him, a mixture of hatred, fear, and fury swirling in her eyes. "Unhand me, _monsieur_."

Viciously, Erik pulled her close to him and grasped her other arm. "Do _not_ order me about in _my own home_." He could see the fear in her eyes starting to override the other emotions storming there. She shied away from his burning eyes.

"Let me go," she whimpered. "Please." Christine turned her head away and squeezed her eyes shut. Erik glared at her harder.

"Look at me, Christine." Both a blessing and a curse rolled off of his tongue. "Look at me." Reluctantly, Christine opened her eyes and looked at him. "You will eat. And then you will dress in something presentable. You will be having a lesson in two hours."

His long fingers slowly unwrapped themselves from her arms, revealing bloodless lines where they once were.

"You will find a pitcher of water and a lemon on the table. Make sure to drink two glasses of lemon water before the lesson, as usual."

Christine nodded mutely and fled into the main room.

---

Without saying, the lesson went terribly. Christine only had to walk into the room and see him sitting at the piano before she choked up. Still hurt by her disdain earlier, Erik ignored her gulping and started playing a simple scale for her to warm up on. When he saw that she was sniffling instead of singing, he slammed his hands down on the piano keys. The discordant notes jarred for what seemed like hours.

"Mademoiselle, would you care to inform me as to exactly _why _you are not singing?"

There was no response.

"Perhaps the mademoiselle does not feel well?"

Christine mutely nodded her head, keeping her eyes on her feet. He stood up, the piano bench toppling over in his anger.

"Perhaps the mademoiselle would like to sit down and rest?"

Something in his tone made Christine look at him, rage clouding his features. Scared of what she saw, she backed up slowly.

"Perhaps the mademoiselle would care to go back home?" he growled, advancing on her.

"Perhaps the mademoiselle is not happy here? Perhaps she would like to leave, forget, and never come back?" He had her pinned against the wall, his hands above her head, yelling down into her face. Christine had turned her face away, her eyes tightly closed in terror.

"Perhaps," he whispered, taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to face him, "the mademoiselle would like to take this opportunity to… _properly _thank the teacher who made her who she is, even though he's not an angel!" With that, her blue eyes sprung open, brimming with tears, and he lost all traces of sanity.

Grabbing Christine behind her head, he buried his long fingers in her curls and pressed her mouth to his with bruising force. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, intoxicating him. He could taste the tears that she had been crying all day, he could feel her tremble with emotion, he could hear her sudden intake of breath as contact was made. He felt her submit to him for a moment, a sweet moment, and then her hands were upon his chest, pushing him off.

She brought her hand up to her mouth, and silently mouthed a few words before realizing the futility of such an attempt. Whirling around, she fled out of the room, running for any place to get away from _him. _

Her first thought was to run to the bed, but that would simply put her in an even worse position. She had to escape, had to get away from him! Fright hemmed at the edges of her vision; she was desperate. Seeing an open door, she dashed for it.

Closing the door quietly, Christine stood with her back against the door, catching her breath. There was a lantern throwing weak light in the corner of the small, white room, giving everything ethereal shadows. Curious, Christine walked towards a wooden desk, strewn with various vials and bottles, and a large Soxhlet extractor. Forgetting Erik for a blessed moment, she lifted a small glass Erlenmeyer flask that was giving off a light steam. It contained some sort of strange liquid, which looked like oil, but…

_Christine…._

She jerked up, dropping the flask in her surprise and heard it hit the floor, shattering. To her horror, the door cracked open, and Erik stood silhouetted in the doorway. Terror flooded through her veins as she crept to darkest shadow to avoid his notice. For a moment, she thought that he would leave and look elsewhere. Christine squeezed her eyes closed; fervently praying that he would not see her.

When she opened them, she was met with nothing but darkness.

_Christine…_

She felt hands on her shoulders, pulling her up from her huddled sitting position on the ground. It sent her over the edge. "NO!" Christine screamed, "Please, no!"

"Get out."

She gaped at the dim gleam of his mask, unable to find words for the second time that day.

"Get. Out."

His hands were still steeled about her shoulders, and he pulled her away from the wall and let her fall to the ground.

"GET OUT!"

Needing no further prompting, Christine jumped up from the floor and scurried to where she remembered the door was, found the handle, and flung herself out of the room with a sob.

---

_Foolish! An amateur's mistake, Erik! If you frighten the girl, she'll run. And she'll run like water—down the path with the least resistance. Straight into the _open door_ of your laboratory. Why did you even leave that door open, Erik? Idiot!_

_You were less than a hairsbreadth from her knowing. Luck smiled on you once today, and that was when Raoul decided to _not_ explain every single chemical property and meaning when he was younger. Be thankful, Erik. She does not know. You still have your chance._

_And your chance is very real…._

A slow smirk spread across Erik's masked face. He swiftly exited the laboratory, closing the door and locking it.


	5. Disillusioned

**Author's Notes: **_Hota- _Umm... We suck at life: D Sorry for the centuries between the updates, but yeah. Have fun reading, and if you guys can guess what the original idea for this chapter was, I love you. If you review, I love you. A big thanks to loupe-de-sang of PPN and POL for drawing us a leetle drawble, and to Polly, the Saintly beta/midwife. : D

_Sporky- _Nope. I don't have an excuse. Thanks to Polly for betaing. Oh, if y'all are interested, we made a LJ where you can check up on us in future absences: http / Spota . livejournal .com . Minus the spaces, of course. Enjoy the chapter.

---

Simon Stryde was a respectable sort of fellow. His family came from England, and they were well connected in France. Several months ago, he had been sent to France by his to keep these connections happy and pleased with their family.

It was also in France that he met the woman he wished to marry. Christine was the most beautiful creature he had seen, and he's seen a fair few beautiful women. There was something about her that was different than all the other painted peacocks of her country. She had no rouge on her lips, nor any kohl lining her eyes. She was, quite simply, an angel to him.

He was walking to her guardian's house on this brisk autumn morning. True, for the past five days he had come and inquired after her, only to be told that she was very busy at the Palais Garnier. His sweet little songbird now sung to all of the Parisian upper-crust, and she illuminated their façades with her pure innocence of the most delightful kind.

"Oh, my sweet Christine, some day we will be married, and I shall show you off to all of the chaps in England! They will love you, I know it!" he hummed softly to himself.

To be completely honest, Simon Stryde was never overly fond of music or passionate about any of the arts. The only reason he saw for an opera company to exist was so that the aristocrats could go to their performances to see and be seen. To him, the arts were created for social conquest.

Simon jaunted up the steps of Madame Valérius' home and pressed on the buzzer. A meek young woman answered the door. She had a few bright red curls escaping from her cap, and there was a smell of household cleaners wafting from inside the door.

"Oui, monsieur?" she said tonelessly.

"Ah, mademoiselle, I would like to call upon Mlle. Daaé," he replied jovially.

The maid controlled the urge to roll her eyes at the overly-happy man. After all, this was the sixth day in a row that he had come to their doorstep asking after her mistress.

"I'm sorry, monsieur, but she is—"

"Marie-Louise, who is at the door?" a voice called down from the stairs.

"Monsieur Stryde, madame."

"Tell him to come in. I would like to speak to him."

Marie-Louise nodded to Simon and opened the door wider. He stepped into a modest foyer; narrowly avoiding a mop propped up against the wall. The maid led him through a small drawing room and up an old wooden staircase. There were a few closed doors on the landing, but Marie-Louise led the Englishman down a hallway that was parallel to the staircase. She then fully opened a half-open door.

"Come in, M. Stryde," commanded an elderly woman from a chair by the fireplace.

Suddenly, Simon Stryde wasn't feeling quite so happy. Cautiously, he walked over to the old woman.

"Sit."

He sat.

She watched the fire for a little while, ignoring the nervous-looking young man sitting on the floor by her feet. Feeling a little wicked; she waited as long as she could before talking to him, enjoying his squirming and obvious discomfort.

"So, Monsieur Stryde, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

"Oh! My dear Madame Valérius, I was hoping to see the beautiful Mlle. Daaé today, and speak to her about some private matters that we left unfinished at an earlier date. Perhaps she is not busy today?"

"Well, I shall have to ask. Christine, dear," she called, "Are you busy at the moment?"

Simon's heart stopped beating as he waited for his doll's response. In a terribly cliché way, it grew wings and started flapping around in his chest when he heard her light voice call from across the hall.

"No, I am not, Mama. Do you need another blanket?"

"My child, come in the library for a moment, would you?"

With a light patter of feet, her head popped around the doorway, wreathed in brown curls. Simon found himself being drowned in the depths of her crystal blue eyes, which were framed in an equally lovely face. She was a bit pale, he noted, perhaps she had recently been sick. He chided himself on being so inattentive to her needs. He would atone for that, he thought, putting his hand on box in his pocket and growing a little happier.

Christine blanched at the sight of him in a horrid blue suit, his moustache slicked in an English fashion. As she fought disgust off her face, he stood up hastily to greet his love. "Mlle. Christine!" he swept himself into a deep bow and accidentally graced Mama Valérius with his rear end. She made noises and told him to keep that thing away from her, it would be a scandal should anyone see. He made profuse apologies, and then requested permission to take Christine for a stroll through the park.

"No."

"I'd suppose that we'd be about two hou- what did you say, Madame?"

"Monsieur Stryde, if anyone here has a hearing problem, it is me. You asked for permission to take Christine out, and I said no. Anything you have to say to her may be said here."

Christine leaned up against the wall, brushing a wrinkle out of her dress, grimacing with the memory of their previous encounter.

_She had been trying to get into her dressing-room after Hannibal, which was proving to be quite a feat. The crowds were simply enormous, filling the hallway. Everyone was brandishing some sort of weapon, whether it be a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers. As she meekly followed Madame Giry, who was parting the Red Sea with her staff, she was assaulted several times by aforementioned weapons. When she finally had reached her room, Mme. Giry having beaten away most of the crowd, she found one man standing by her door, waiting. Madame backed away politely, allowing one fan to talk to Christine. _

_"_Would you be Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, a goddess of song, a nymph escaped from mythology, a rose in a field of thorns?"_ he said suavely, flashing overly-white teeth before grabbing her hand and showering it with kisses._

_Christine stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say. _"Well… Monsieur, I certainly am Christine Daaé, but I cannot claim such origins as you give me."

_There was an awkward silence, in which Christine eyed her doorway, tantalizingly close, yet so far away. With a sigh, she turned back to the man, who was staring at her, enraptured. _"Do you have a name, Monsieur, or shall I be doomed to call you Monsieur for eternity?"

_He started, and then sidled closer to her. _"My name, dear mademoiselle, is Simon Stryde. I am one of your most devout fans, and your performance tonight was simply astounding."

"Thank you, monsieur,"_ Christine murmured as she took a step backward, wondering how she had such a large fan base after only one performance. Unfortunately she promptly found herself against a wall. _"Now if you'll please, I really must return to my dressing room…"

_M. Stryde opened his mouth and closed it again. Christine took this as an appropriate dismissal and walked briskly past him, trying her damnedest to avoid running into him._

Coming back to reality, Christine realized that Simon had been talking to her and that she should pay attention.

"…ever since I saw you, I have been enraptured by your heavenly voice, your selfless character, your pure heart, your angelic looks, why, Christine, I would be willing to bet that you hide a pair of splendid wings underneath your beautiful hair!" He laughed too loudly at his joke, and Christine gave him a thin-lipped smile.

"Monsieur Stryde, I have heard that you have been asking after me for the past week. What have you been seeking?"

He shuffled his feet around the floor, and then glanced at a staring Mama Valérius before looking Christine in the eyes. "Christine Daaé, I came here today to ask if you would marry me."

Christine gaped at him for a moment, watching him go down on one knee and pull a ring box out of his pocket. With horror, she realized that he was speaking, yet again. "I know I have not known you long, but ever since I laid eyes upon you, I knew you were the one for me!"

"Er, monsieur, I surely cannot—"

"You are a goddess of song and have the kindness of the Virgin Mary herself! Your beautiful visage is the essence of divinity upon this earth—"

Christine looked helplessly at Mama Valérius. The elderly woman, looking slightly annoyed, rolled her eyes.

"—You pity the small people and I daresay you would never kick a man while he's down! In fact, I doubt you would ever pain your delicate nature (or feet) by kicking anything! Christine, my sweet beauty, I love you with all of my heart!"

M. Stryde looked up from his sleeve (where he had conveniently hidden his speech) at Christine. Indeed, his beloved was acting true to her innocent and demure nature. Her hands covered her face and she was shaking.

She turned to face him with tears in her eyes, her hands still trembling. As she opened her mouth to say that she loved him in return, her face turned as red as a crimson rose and she stifled a sob of happiness as she dashed out of the room.

M. Stryde remained kneeling, smiling happily with his hand on the box that contained his future.

Mama Valérius moved about on her divan. She grasped her walking stick, a nice walnut staff with silver tips. M. Stryde remained delightfully unaware of her presence in the room.

_Shmack!_

"Get up, you good-for-nothing fop!"

Confused, Simon Stryde stumbled to his feet, rubbing his rear with one hand. He turned to face Mama, looking rightly offended.

"Get out of my house, monsieur; I don't want to hear of you bothering my Christine again. She's had quite enough, you're lucky that I let you in here to see her today, you scum! You had your chance to redeem yourself, and unless you care to tell me why she came to me in shuddering tears yesterday," she pointed a very direct glare at him, "then you'd better leave before my stick finds your rump again!" she commanded, brandishing the weapon. M. Stryde took one look at the staff and decided that it would be best to leave.

Scampering out of the small library, down the stairs, and back into the brisk autumn air of Paris; M. Stryde was not pleased. The gall of that hag! She hit him! Some unknown dying old witch dared to strike the renowned secretary to the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital's Board of Governors? And what's this she said about him driving Christine to tears the day before? Why, he hadn't seen her the whole week! His notes that he had sent with the flowers had been very complimentary and he had done nothing in their first meeting that would have provoked such a reaction!

Finding himself without fault, the only logical reasoning was that either Christine had gone insane, or someone else was causing her pain. Angels were perfect, and certainly not insane, which left only one option. With a solemn vow, Simon Stryde looked to the clear sky and promised to avenge her suffering.

He was a very gallant, very dramatic sort of man.

---

Christine shot from the room, flopped down on her bed in a most unladylike fashion and started to laugh hysterically, wiping at the tears streaming down her face. It was too much! First the unexpected arrival of her childhood sweetheart, and then her promotion from a chorus girl in the _corps de ballet _to the Prima Donna, all of it happened in one day. What's more, her Angel had revealed himself to her! _Oh, Glory, how lucky I am! _But no, he was not her angel. Her demon, her tormenter, her very own Lucifer. Erik.

For five days she was trapped below the opera house with him. She had stayed, cornered with his cold fury that had lasted until she stumbled through her mirror, stubbornly keeping her chin up until the mirror's _click _had resounded through the room. Throwing herself down on her chaise, she had fought back memories of tense suppers spent pushing her food around on her plate, feeling the cold silence wrap its fingers around her, choking the life out of her. Memories of quiet nights by the fire curled up with a book, trying to ignore the unrelenting gaze from the mask. Memories of Erik towering over her in the laboratory, memories of waking up at night feeling his eyes on her, memories of a childhood dream cruelly shattered, but most of all, memories of the music room and his burst of rage followed by his angry kiss. Brief as it was, Christine felt as if he had invaded some sanctum of her privacy and stolen something exquisitely hers. It was as if she no longer was alone; some lingering presence followed her, always a step behind.

One week. She had promised him one week of his hell every month in exchange for her freedom for the remaining three.

Shaking her head, Christine wiped her eyes on her quilt. She was being a silly, dramatic little girl. She checked her composure in the mirror, and went out to face Mama and possibly a disappointed M. Stryde.

_But even little girls deserve to be silly and dramatic when they've got nowhere else to turn, right? _


	6. Arise, Fair Sun

**Author's Notes: **_Hota: _Apparently, we are zombies. Thanks, Ghostie, for being an emergency beta!

_Sporky: _I'd like to give lots of loving to Ghostwritten for emergency-betaing this chapter. Without her wonderful assistance, it'd be an even longer wait for an update. Not like another few days would have made a difference when you've been waiting for what, a month?

**Important notes:** We've edited chapter two. It was truly awful, but things have hopefully been fixed up. Nothing drastically important was changed, but it still wouldn't hurt to re-read it. However, if you don't want to, I'll summarize what we changed here. It's no longer blatant movie quoting. Carlotta does not shriek anymore. She's a good singer who has worked her way up to where she is. I confess to having written most of the chapter, and then I confess wanting to die once I read it. Sorry guys. As for major changes, Raoul's parents are dead now and he doesn't remember much about his transformations. They're like foggy memories. It's explained in this chapter a bit, so read on, loves!

Be sure to check out our livejournal! It's our homepage on our profile page.

---

"Raoul, I missed you at Madame Hare's dinner party last week! Pray tell, how did the business in Spain go?"

"_Bien, señorita, muy bien."_

Jeanne Avadare whacked his wrist lightly with her fan, giggling as she leaned forward flirtatiously, her petite face alight. "Silly, you know I can't understand that! What was it anyway, German?"

"Why would I be speaking German? I was in Spain! It was Spanish, my dear, Spanish. Or _español, _if you want to say it in their language."

"How perfectly dreadful! I wouldn't be able to stand a day where people didn't speak in a decent language, let alone over a week!"

Raoul chewed on his cheek for a moment, unsure of what to say. "Perfectly dreadful indeed." he murmured, and excused himself from the short woman's presence.

_I suppose it's not a quality of fine ladies of society to be educated, _he mused. He watched Jeanne blend in with the rest of the gathering, becoming another splash amidst the sea of colors that occupied the room; her voice blending in with the vapid discussion of who did what with whom.

Calling on his elementary grasp of Spanish, Raoul had bluffed himself a week in which he could succumb to the crashing force within him, the fierce addiction to his potion. He had a vague memory of the past week — he had been at the Opera, he knew that, but what was he _doing? _Like an old memory, it hovered on the edge of his mind, but he couldn't conjure it. He remembered the mask, yes, he always remembered _that, _but….

With a moan, Raoul led himself to the bathroom, stretching his shoulders. He was always achy after taking the potion. Cupping some water in his hands, he prepared to splash himself with it. Through the ripples, he could see his face, flushed with heat from the warm room. His eyes were darkened by black circles around his eyes, remnants of a last night's lack of sleep. He'd had one of _those _dreams again.

Shatteringly lifelike, they haunted him every so often. He would dream of awful things, horrible things. One night, he had caught a whore in a back alley and had his way with her, watching as she had writhed underneath him with a mixture of pleasure and pain, victim to his vicious will; in another, he had killed two people with his own hands in an alleyway. Last night, he had dreamt of Christine.

_She's huddled in the lab. My lab, but it's not like mine at home. I can almost smell her fear. Even though it's dark, I can tell by her breathing that she's in the corner. I'm angry at her. Why? Now I'm yelling at her, telling her to leave. No, Christine, don't cry! Christine, I'm here, you remember me, don't you? _

_I'm lost… why am I in her bedroom? What am I doing? I twist a curl around a finger—my finger, even though mine are not near as pale— and whisper in her ear. _"I will never leave you, my angel…. You will never be alone…."_ Words of comfort, why does she shiver in her sleep? Christine, it's me! _

Raoul shook his head. _Of course, it's perfectly natural I dreamed about Christine; I just saw her! But... what was I doing to her? _

With a final glance at his tired reflection, he threw the cold water onto his face and walked back out to the parlor.

---

It had happened again. She could hear him speaking to her.

"Calm down, Christine," she muttered to herself. "He doesn't come out of the opera." Shakily, Christine pushed herself up from the warm pillows and sat up, listening through the walls to the comforting sound of Mama Valerius's soft snoring.

"He doesn't leave," she said firmly, shaking her head. Christine walked to her wardrobe and pulled a mauve dressing gown on over her white nightgown.

Softly, she paced around the room to clear her thoughts. Try as she might, she could not get her mind off of _him. _Whenever she shut her eyes, she could see his mismatched two staring back at her. When she started humming, it was always one of the songs from his lessons. Why would she not stop thinking of him? His music inspired her, his _kidnapping_ made her fear him, and his kiss still lingered with her. Unwanted and uninvited, she remembered it just the same.

She shook her head again, causing several clusters of dark unruly hair to get in her face. Absentmindedly, she brushed them away with the back of her hand.

"Papa would always read, maybe that will distract me…." she started muttering again.

The passage of several hours found Christine in the library, curled up on the rug near the banked fire reading a book of Greek mythology. Nearby, several half-opened books lay on the ground, each varying from Victor Hugo's _Les Misérables_, to a crumpled, paper copy of _A Doll's House_ by Henrik Ibsen. Oddly enough, she found the play stashed in Hugo's book, and both of which she found dreadful and abandoned after five or so pages. The mythology, however, held her interest with it's fantastical tales of heroes and lovers. She was midway through the tale of Hephaestus and Aphrodite when Marie-Louise opened the door.

Christine and the maid both gasped and started uttering apologies.

"Terribly sorry, mademoiselle, I didn't realize that you'd be in here, I'll go—"

"Oh! Marie-Louise, I didn't think you'd be cleaning so early! I'll just get dressed and—"

They both stopped and blushed. Christine gave a giggle, and hurried out of the room to let the maid do her work. When she reached her room, Christine was rather shocked to see that the sky was graying outside. _It must nearly be five o'clock!_

"How could I have stayed up that long?" she murmured. "I'm not even tired…."

Christine took off her dressing gown and put it away. She crawled back under her sheets and tried to rest on the now cold pillows. She tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position to attempt to sleep in.

After staring at the slowly-lightening sky outside her window, Christine gave up and dragged herself from her bed once more.

"That's it. I'll just have to tire myself out." After dressing in a light green dress, she dragged a brush to try and separate her curls and added a few pins to keep them out of her face. Christine quietly left her room, grabbed her cloak from the coat rack in the foyer, and stepped out into the brisk, predawn air.

---

Raoul leaned heavily against the carriage interior, gazing aimlessly through the window at early morning Paris. Philippe slouched in the corner opposite him, either asleep or unconscious.

"A little get together between friends." That's what Jean had called the party that the Aberdeens had hosted. So little, in fact, that only half of the Parisian socialites were invited, yet nearly three-quarters of them came. Dinner at ten, followed by coffee at midnight. Then, you danced until you could no longer stand.

Society be damned.

Raoul sighed wearily, leaning his forehead against the cool window.

A lone woman walked down the street in a green dress, with a dark cloak covering her shoulders. She looked up as the carriage approached, and the two met eyes.

Shocked, Raoul stared at her for a moment, blinking. Then, realization hit him. It was Christine, who he had just seen at the Opera not a week ago!

Philippe jerked awake when Raoul whacked the roof of the carriage.

"What the devil are you doing, man?" Philippe growled at him sleepily.

"Wait a moment, Philippe," Raoul muttered, while rapping on the partition harder. "Driver, stop here!" He called, much to the chagrin of Philippe, who clutched his head and moaned at the noise.

The carriage rattled to a stop, and Raoul bolted out of it, slamming the door against the side and shattering the window.

"Christine!" He shouted as he ran across the cobbled streets toward the young woman. She started and turned around to face him, confused. "Monsieur?" she murmured, eyeing him carefully as he approached her.

"Mademoiselle Christine, surely it has not been so long that you do not remember me?" he asked, sweeping his hat off and bowing deeply.

"Raoul!" she cried joyfully. "Oh, Raoul, it's so good to see you!"

"And you, as well, Christine! God, it must have been ten years, at least!"

"Seven," she replied coyly. Raoul grinned and apologetically knelt in front of her, making dramatic gestures.

"'But soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

Iti s the East, and Juliet is the sun!

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

who is already sick and pale with grief

that thou her maid art far more fair than she.'"

Christine laughed softly. "Still fond of Shakespeare, I see."

He continued.

"Be not her maid, since she is envious;  
Her vestal livery is but sick and green," he grinned again and raised an eyebrow, eyeing her dress..

"My dear, kind Raoul, I do hope you are not trying to dissuade me from my favorite green frock."

Raoul stood and his green eyes twinkled. "Of course not, my sweet. If I were to dislike the color green, I surely would have gouged my own eyes out."

"That, monsieur, is a horrible sentiment."

"Is it so? I thought it was rather cheerful, actually," Raoul offered her his arm, and she gladly took it.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Christine, you can hardly expect us to recount the past seven years standing in the middle of the cold street. I am taking you to the carriage, and we shall go to my home and have tea. Just ignore Philippe, he'll most likely say something vulgar."

"Hmm. Tetchy bastard."

Raoul stopped and looked at Christine, who blinked demurely. "To the carriage?"

He laughed. "Christine, it's been far too long."

---

"What the bloody hell is that hooker doing in here?" Philippe slurred as the carriage jerked to a start.

"Not much use in a gentleman taking one in the street now is it, Philippe?" Raoul replied breezily. Christine glanced between the two men, affronted. Raoul simply waggled his eyebrows, causing her to stifle a giggle.

"Actually, dear brother, she is not a whore. I trust you remember that one summer you visited the manor in Perros-Guirrec?"

Philippe grunted something unintelligibly.

"Just as well, but this young lady was the daughter of the fiddler there. In fact, he gave me my violin lessons."

"That Norse fellow?"

"The very same."

"That still doesn't explain why you brought the hooker in the carriage."

Raoul sighed, defeated. Christine laughed quietly behind her hand.

"Fine, Raoul,I'm sure you need a break from whatever the hell you do in the basement, but please be sure to pay her. They get mad if you don't…" After a few minutes, Philippe's snores could be heard and the two immediately started talking.

"How have you been, Christine?" Raoul started.

"Very well, for the most part."

"And the other part?"

She smiled sadly, "It's with Papa."

Raoul held her and whispered in her hair, "I am so sorry, Christine."

"It's alright, Raoul. It's been a long time." She pulled away and looked up at him. "I'm working at the opera now."

"I was there at your first performance, Christine! What a marvelous singer you are," he relaxed his arms and shifted uncomfortably. _Why did I say that? She'll wonder why you didn't come down and see her! Hell, I hardly remembered what happened after I realized she was Elissa!_

Christine blushed furiously and looked down at her hands. "Thank you, Raoul." She glanced across at Philippe uneasily. _I can't tell him. Not yet._ "And what about you, Raoul? What have you done with yourself?"

_Thank God. _"Father wanted one of his sons in the military, and I was volunteered for it by our good Philippe. They tried to put me in the navy, but apparently I don't have sea legs." He laughed. "After about three weeks of being out to sea for training, my commanding officer brought us to port, and when I finished kissing the ground, he told me to go home. And that's precisely what I did. I have no wish to ever get on a ship again, I hope my father, may he rest in peace, will find it in his heart to forgive me."

"What about your little potions and glass bottles?"

"The chemistry set, you mean?"

"Yes, that. You used to be fascinated by those, I remember."

"Well, I went to school and became a doctor."

"That's marvelous, Raoul! Where do you work? Or does your… class not permit you to practice?"

"I can practice well enough if I don't go around proclaiming who I am. I don't give a damn about what everyone thinks about me. And as for _where_, I work at Pitiê-Salpêtrière Hospital."

"Ah, that sounds very—ahem—interesting," Christine tried to remember if she'd heard of that hospital.

"Well, seeing as its main patients are a bunch of crazy former prostitutes… It really is rather interesting."

"Then I suppose it's a _good _thing that I didn't know that hospital."

"Very. As much as I enjoy seeing you, I would hate to see you there."

"I'm very glad you care."

---

Over tea, the conversation continued.

"After leaving the navy—thank God, you don't want to know how sick I was on those ships—I went to a school for medicine. It was interesting enough, but you remember how I was with that chemistry set."

Christine laughed. "Yes, you were quite dangerous, if I remember correctly. I consider it a miracle that your house didn't burn down."

"Well… yes, it is. Medicine interests me, but not for the love of curing people. Finding out how people work, why they work, and what compels them to work is what I am most interested in. It's a nearly perfect blend of chemistry and medicine. I believe that a balance of chemicals in the body can be accounted for every action, every decision."

"Is that so?" Christine sipped on her tea, looking interested.

"I believe it. We are ruled by our body. The brain is just another organ which can be altered with chemicals. For instance, let's say that you are lonely. You recognize that you are lonely, so your brain produces lonely chemicals. Ideally, chemists would have made an anti-lonely chemical, and you could, ideally of course, go and get some of the anti-lonely chemical and not be lonely any more. That's a very basic version of the concept, but it's the principal."

"But there are other ways to alleviate problems other than chemicals. If I was so lonely, why could I not find someone so I wouldn't be lonely anymore?"

Raoul thought for a moment. "Perhaps that was a bad example. Maybe it wasn't loneliness caused by the absence of people in general, maybe by a specific person. Grief. Have you ever thought of what life would be like without the pain of the death of your father?"

"Well, yes, all the time! But certainly there is more to a person than only a composition of chemicals. What about the soul?"

"Ay, there's the rub. That is one thing that I do not know about. I have tried to get a subject to test some of my hypotheses on, but certain… complications… got in the way." He smiled weakly. "But I've never let those stop me before. My research is currently my main occupation now. Just think, Christine! If my plan works, we could get rid of the evil in the world! No more murder, no more treachery, lies, or deceit! Christine, we could re-create _Eden_!" He grasped her hand in excitement, his eyes shining with a vision of the future.

Christine stared at him, bewildered. It was a strange, erratic idea; a wild chance that she dared not believe. Not knowing what else to do, she picked up her tea and took a sip.

"Anyway, enough about me. What have you been doing in these last few years?" Raoul asked.

"Oh, nothing near as glorious as you. After Papa… after Papa died, Mama Valerius took me into her house. Remember her? She used to come and visit, just like you. I came to France with her and went to a Catholic school. The choir teacher insisted that I take lessons to improve my voice, but I wasn't very eager. You see, Papa had always given me my lessons, and I was loathe to replace him with anyone else.

"I did, though, but I didn't put much effort into it. I was accepted into the Conservatory of Music a few years back. I wasn't anything special through school, yet I managed a job at the Opera in the chorus."

"But you weren't a chorus girl last week. How did that happen?"

Christine stiffened. "I… I have a new teacher. He has… done wonders for my voice. If I still believed in the fairy tales my father told," she shook her head sadly, "I would say that he was the Angel of Music. But he's not. As for the role, Carlotta walked out one day during rehearsals, something to do with the Opera Ghost. I simply stepped up to take her place. I will be back in the chorus when she returns."

"That is the saddest thing I have heard in weeks. Who is this ghost? I've heard some things, but nothing concrete."

Settling back in her chair, Christine smiled. "That's because there _is_ nothing concrete. It all started one day when my friend Meg Giry was trying to skip practice. She was going for a walk underneath the Opera in the cellars, and came back up frightened half to death by some ghost. She said at first she thought it was a stagehand trying to frighten her, but he was too skinny to move a set. His eyes, she said too, practically glowed from behind a mask that covered his face. Of course, I thought that it was some foolishness of hers.

"It wasn't, though. She had lost her hair ribbon in her terror, and somehow, in the midst of a dormitory full of frightened girls, it was returned to her with a letter signed by Monsieur le Fantôme de la Opera."

Raoul blanched and felt sick. _The Angel of Music. The mask. The Phantom of the Opera. The hair ribbon. Erik. _

"Raoul, are you feeling all right?" Christine jumped up out of her chair and put her hand across his pale forehead. "You're freezing cold!"

"It… it's nothing. I've been out all night at a blasted party. Yes, that's it, the party. I'm extremely tired, Christine, I hope you don't mind me ordering the carriage to take you back to Mama Valerieus' house; I think I would fall asleep on you if I were to go anywhere except to bed."

Shakily, he stood up. "I would very much like to see you again, Christine. Old friends are comforts that are hard to come by."

She nodded quietly before giving him a tight hug. Snuggling into his jacket, she relished the feeling of his arms around her. "Raoul, I've missed you."

"I've missed you too, Christine, I've missed you too."


End file.
